He alights at the edge of a honeycomb of city and parks, braided together by high-speed rail depots and side roads. People come and go about their days, three-quarters of them women and the rest dressing to blend in.

A well-developed world, not much like the ones he and his once-recent now-former traveling companions strode through. Unfamiliar, but he can only imagine the convenience of having everything and everyone so close, whether on foot or by rail.

Certainly, he strikes an odd figure among the locals, tall and long-bearded, clad in the heavy wool and leathern garb of a wanderer.

Now in the world proper, he retrieves a map from his pack, a clever device of light and cloth that revealed the broad strokes of his locale no matter where he went. His friends had told him he should seek out an office of immigration, at least once he'd gotten a sense of Starlight's places, so he'll see if he can find one nearby and explore its surroundings.

There is one a few honeycombs to his west, enclosed by gardens and in the shade of a large skyscraper. A few people give him odd looks as he passes, but no-one actually stops to speak to him. 

It's only natural to draw looks as a traveler, more so in some places than others. If anyone looks actively displeased, or angry, he might see about avoiding them, but he's otherwise unworried.

First, he'll see if he can find somewhere to sit that has a good amount of background conversation, so he can breath in some of the local spirit and get a feel for what the talk of the town happens to be about today, and observe its general tone and prosody.

There's a fair number of park benches where he can eavesdrop on conversations. The general tone of the language seems to be bright and lilting, with a feeling of motion through each sentence. 

People are mostly talking about their close romances, their present stories, and their extended families. The general tone seems to be one of grumbling over family, appreciation of romance, and immersion in fantasy and the fantastical. He hears the word enra a few times, which conveys to him a sense of a vocation or passion not chosen by the bearer, but originating deep within the heart. 

"- those new programmable lumistrands are really beautiful, I want to buy some with my next paycheck -"

"- I want to worship her, but not, like, worship her, you know? That way lies madness."  

"Would you like to drop by the il'ka in the afternoon? I heard there's a new flavor of mocha on sale -" 

Interesting. Family troubles and romance are hardly rare, but the texture of the spirits' overtones are naturally unique, and alongside the general fantasia gives him a strong sense of peacetime, of prosperity and opportunity. The commonness of callings made by the heart is interesting as well, and something that he thinks he'll ask immigration about if he does settle here.

He'll rest for a while longer, continuing to absorb the place's atmosphere, then seek out whatever options for food or dining are available in or around the park.

There seems to be a cafe of some kind at the side of the park, selling coffee and... bedrooms by the hour? An unusual service. People are sitting around on laptops in the front room, in squashy sweaters and v-necked tops, chatting casually. Most people pay by tapping a card from their wallet on the kiosk, but some few pull out small engraved glass tokens to make their payment. 

Hm. His hand finds its way into pack's coin pocket. He has some money, but nothing clearly comparable to the local fare. Presumably they have some kind of banking system here that makes notes of tender and such more common, he's been through a few worlds with similar situations.

Unless there's a convenient pawn or currency exchange or tourist center even closer by, it looks like the office immigration will be his next stop.

The immigration office is set amid a large park, and is a small, un-intimidating building with a brick face. The front reception has one line and a dozen tellers, who are presently working through applicants at a steady pace. It looks like the current wait to be seen is about ten minutes, in a comfortable chair. 

Impressively efficient, at least by his experience. He'll take his place in the queue, sit for the brief time he must wait, then head up to whichever teller is open (or whichever he's called to, if he is). Currency conversion is the first thing on his mind, but he won't hold back that he's looking into the possibility of immigrating if asked. This is an immigration office after all.

"I can certainly help you with currency conversion, sir; what currency are you converting from?" 

"Mostly silver coinage, thalers, groats, obols..." all the myriad names that places he's wandered through have given to portable chips of silver all but spill out of him, though he's able to stop himself a moment later.

"I'm not familiar with any of the currencies you're converting from, sir, but I'm sure I can give you the price of the silver. One moment while I refer this to my supervisor."